


Less

by its_elvish_for_two



Category: The Greatcoats - Sebastien de Castell
Genre: Brotherhood, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:06:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21529519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_elvish_for_two/pseuds/its_elvish_for_two
Summary: Brasti kept his head snuggled into Kest's shoulder and gave him a squeeze as he ruffled the swordsman's hair and whispered, "I don't care how much less I have to expect. As long as you're here, that's enough."
Comments: 16
Kudos: 23





	Less

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Frankly, if anyone reads this fic, I will be amazed and delighted because this fandom seems to be very much a hidden treasure. It is such a good series so if you simply clicked on this story by accident, perhaps consider giving The Greatcoats a try. You won't regret it!
> 
> If you are already in the fandom and can recommend any other fics, I'd love to know, because I cannot find any and would love to.
> 
> Please enjoy, comments always welcome.

Dying, it turned out, wasn't as permanent as he'd thought. 

Kest had done everything he could to avoid it, his spine creaking as he'd fought the God's will, his head threatening to split open as he forced himself to meet Falcio's eye. And in his friend's look he had seen the plea, the intensity of the yearning, even if it hadn't been voiced.

 _Save Ethalia_. 

Kest struggled to nod and attempted to turn his head a few degrees, clamping his jaw so hard a small part of his mind wondered if he would eventually crack a tooth. Not that he cared. It wasn't worth wasting energy worrying about, not with the price of what was at stake. He finally managed to gain enough movement to see Ethalia standing before the Blacksmith and his creation, the battle warring more viscously than ever. Falcio believed Kest had the strength to fight the God's will and stand too, but his friend thought too highly of him, as always. 

He was not a Saint anymore, and even if he had been, he doubted he would have had the strength to do as Ethalia did, to face Fear incarnate. Caveil, although Kest knew it was not truly he, stood before them, sword in hand, and Kest could do nothing, could say nothing, and he was reminded brutally that once more he had failed.

His greatest desire, the fire that burned in his soul, the one thought that consumed him in that moment, was the plea that Falcio had thrown to him. They were all about to die, on their knees in the dirt, facing a manifestation of their deepest fears, the God morphing into each of its guests' truest horrors. But while Kest could convince himself that his enemy, Caveil-whose-sword-cuts-water, was long dead, and did not really stand before him, Falcio had no such comfort. For while the man responsible for his wife's murder was not real, the man who was about to kill the only other woman he ever loved was.

As the Blacksmith readied his bloodied dagger, preparing to enact his revenge on the Saint of Mercy, Kest knew that it could not be allowed to happen. He had to save her. But that need was not what finally freed him from his invisible restraints. The desire to save Ethalia did not have that power. 

The need to save Falcio did.

Aline's death had created the deadliest man in Tristia when Falcio had sought revenge. By some miracle, and Kest had no illusions that it was due to Fate alone, the destruction had not included Falcio himself. They would not be so lucky a second time.

And it was this knowledge that drove his knees to straighten. The image of Falcio's despair that brought his left hand to his sword. The fear of failing his friends yet again that lent his arm the strength to parry the Blacksmith's thrust. 

As he heard the bone snap, he prepared for the Blacksmith to swap hands and try another attack, and Kest knocked the blade from his grasp. Turning smoothly towards the God, he raised his sword once more in a fluid arc, but a single word from his opponent had him reeling as though struck.

" _Cease_."

He acquiesced only because he had no choice, his sword held in guard as he waited, ready. He was acutely aware of the blinding pain that ignited his body, the knowledge that he had succeeded in protecting Ethalia draining his body of the adrenaline which had kept the agony at bay. It returned with full force and he saw Falcio and Brasti regain movement out of the corner of his eyes. That they were free now, and that he could stop almost had him dropping to his knees, but he somehow retained his balance and his guard position, his entire mental energy now reversed from moments early and attempting to keep him stock still, as opposed to breaking the restraints. 

" _Apostate_."

The pain vanished. Kest dropped his eyes to see if he had released his sword, but it still hung from his left hand, his knuckles white he was gripping it so tightly. And yet there was no pain.

For the briefest second, Kest found his mind hoping against all odds that he was cured. That he might finally be able to train again, fight again, without his body cursing him to the endless torment of his worst nightmare. Perhaps he could be the greatest swordsman again. Perhaps he could keep his promise to his twelve year old self. Perhaps he could keep Falcio safe. 

And then, as he met Falcio's eye, he registered the meaning of the God's proclamation. The hope melted like the last patch of snow in the spring sunshine, slipping away along with Kest's awareness and, as he clutched his heart, his life.

*

His later recollection of his time in the land of the dead was fleeting and sketchy at best, horribly distorted and haunting at worst. But there was an underlying mantra that echoed all around him, the words coming from an unknown source until Kest found his own jaw moving in time with them.

"Let me die."

A woman's voice had assulted him, her words shallow and meaningless to his ears. She pleaded, but he owed her nothing. She would be gone soon, and at least here he could not let anyone down.

Or so he thought, until he caught his first painful glimpse of Falcio. Unable to face him, he fled, only instinct causing him to react to the call of his name. He could not let Falcio catch him. When his friend realised he was out of reach, he would be forced to leave, and Kest could be at peace here, without the fear of catching the disappointment and betrayal in the eyes of those who expected such simple things from him, but which he could not provide.

Flashes of images assaulted him, of Caveil and Shuran, of Falcio, and of his twelve year old self, wielding a great war sword. Until he couldn't. Until he failed. Inevitably and ruinously. 

"You could be less."

How? How could he be _less_? How could he live with knowing that even in his prime, he had been unable to protect his best friend and his wife? True, Shuran had not killed Falcio, Kest having helped to prevent that fate, but at a terrible price. He had sacrificed his hand for his friend, his brother, and would do so again in a heart beat, for either of his brothers. But it could never be enough again. With his hand he had lost his only purpose, his raison d'être. His only use. His sword had always, always, been wielded for either Brasti or Falcio. Even indirectly, in his service to the King, it had truly been for Falcio, whose belief in the Greatcoats had spurred him to swear his allegiance to the Crown. 

Meeting Brasti had only strengthened his resolve to serve the Greatcoats, marking a second oath of protection. But with his entire life dedicated to mastering the blade, and now unable to even consider the thought of lifting it without enduring more physical pain than he could possibly fathom, how could Kest keep his promises to defend his friends? He had no place by their sides now, and he would rather stay in this ivory desert, adrift like a ship in a tempest, than have to watch his friends come to the same realisation that he had; he could only disappoint them now. He could not be less when even his best was not enough.

"Less," Kest's brain offered automatically, having to grapple for a moment to recall Falcio's question. He returned to the present, if there was such a thing in this illusion, and realised Falcio had used his legendary silver tongue to leave Kest in an impossible position. He was not enough to save Falcio, but he was better than nothing. "Son of a bitch."

The last flittering images Kest could conjure were of the sky; a roiling, toneless murk, swirling and clamouring for position above the desolate landscape, like two armies clashing on a battlefield.

 _Why does it fight so, when there is nothing to fight for?_ Kest thought to himself. His own lips answered his question.

"There is always something to fight for; if there is truly no reason to keep fighting, one should consider that one may need to fight simply for the hope that such a reason will come."

*

Awareness returned slowly to the swordsman, his surroundings making themselves known to him gradually, although his eyes remained shut. He felt a gentle weight on his chest, a reassuring warmth resonating through his sternum and grounding him as he stretched out his senses. 

His arms lay leaden beside him, and although he couldn't move so much as a finger, he felt the dry, dusty soil beneath him. The pressure on his chest suddenly shifted, repositioning for a second before disappearing. Reasoning that his lids were too heavy for him to even attempt to open, Kest was content to remain still for a while longer, simply allowing his chest to rise and fall carefully with his breaths.

As though eager to make itself known now that Kest was awakening, the gentle humming that the man had not noticed before now increased its intensity, growing louder and more lilting, until he was able to latch onto its melody and realise the noise was voices. _A conversation_ , his muddled brain supplied. _But not just words_. Kest frowned slightly as he focussed to discern the odd noise he kept hearing. The sound brought forth the image of water droplets. Water on a face. The face of a red-haired, brash young man, who had a smirk that could topple kingdoms, if only matched with more than three brain cells. 

The image awoke a spike of emotion in Kest. For a second, it was a wonderfully happy one, until paired with the sounds he heard. This man, whom he knew somehow was very dear to him, was crying. Not just crying. Sobbing. 

Weeping. 

_Breaking_.

The realisation had Kest's heart hammering in his chest, perhaps trying to make up for the beats it had missed several minutes earlier. The sensation pulled a groan from the swordsman's lips before he could stop it, and he tried to prise open his stubborn eyes. Soft fingers suddenly closed around his left hand, raising it from the dirt and squeezing it gently. 

"Kest, it's alright," a gentle voice pleaded. It was not one of the two he had heard just now, but he recalled it from the pale land, begging him to return. The woman spoke again. "Kest, open your eyes for me. You've been asleep for long enough." 

Kest felt inclined to disagree, his exhaustion like a heavy blanket that beckoned him back to sleep, but he sensed an urgency in the woman's voice and felt the presence of two more people materialise at his other side, just at the edge of his awareness. Another soft moan escaped him in deference to the dull ache that pulsed through his head with every beat of his heart.

"Kest, open your eyes, you bastard."

The voice was choked and again, the image of the red-haired man popped into Kest's mind at the sound. Well, since he'd asked so nicely…

With an effort far beyond what should reasonably have been required, Kest succeeded in cracking open first one eye then the other, both barely slits but enough for him to take in his immediate proximity. 

As he had guessed, a woman clasped his hand in both of hers. Her dark curtain of hair partially covered her face, and she briefly lightened her hold on him to tuck the locks behind her ear before squeezing his hand again, offering him a soft smile. 

Remembering the man who had called him from his slumber, Kest's eyes flicked to his other side and after a few slow blinks was able to focus on the two figures who sat in the dirt next to him. 

"About time, lazy bugger," sniffed the red-headed man, who placed a comforting hand on Kest's knee. He could feel the slight tremor in it and offered his upset friend a weak smile. 

"You had us worried for a second there, my friend," said the second man, the one who sat by his head. The unruly head of dark curls and the intense brown eyes brought tears to Kest's tired eyes as he recognised this man as the one he had tried his hardest to escape from in the ivory hell. The man he had hoped so desperately to avoid disappointing. He was barely aware that he held his breath as he waited to see what his friend would say. 

The man reached forward a gentle hand and swept away the moisture on Kest's cheeks, a sad smile gracing his lips. "It's alright, Kest. You're back now. Brasti and I are here, and so is Ethalia, thanks to you. We will protect you."

"It should be the other way round, Falcio," Kest whispered hoarsely, his vision blurring again. "I should be protecting you." 

"Not now, my friend," said Falcio, pressing a light kiss to Kest's forehead and then offering him a small smile. "It is our turn to look after you. Rest now, and remember my words."

Kest nodded, although he had no intention of sleeping yet. But he closed his eyes obediently until he heard Falcio stand, and felt Ethalia tenderly lay his hand back down, leaving him only with the continued trembling presence of the hand on his knee. 

"Are you alright?" Kest murmured, his voice low enough that the words would only reach their intended recipient. He knew he had been heard because he felt his knee squeezed momentarily tighter, but there was no reply. He opened his eyes again and watched as he tried again. "Brasti?"

"Why?" 

The archer resolutely refused to meet Kest's eye, staring at the dirt instead, but his words were clear as day, in volume at least, if not in sentiment.

"Why what?" asked Kest, wondering if it was just his sluggish brain making Brasti's word difficult to follow, or whether his friend just wasn't explaining himself.

"Why didn't you come back when Ethalia called you?"

Kest struggled to stitch together the details of his ragged memory even as he noted the tremble in Brasti's voice which was equal parts anger and fear. He didn't have a chance to reply before Brasti continued. "Why couldn't you come back when Ethalia called you?"

The minute change in wording didn't escape Kest's notice, the first question almost scolding while the second was a plea. 

"I thought it would be better if I didn't. I have out grown my usefulness," Kest admitted calmly, though his throat threatened to close on him. 

"Your usefulness? Usefulness to whom, exactly?" demanded Brasti, still not turning his head. 

"Everyone. Aline. Ethalia. Valiana. The Greatcoats-"

"Falcio."

The suggestion hit Kest like a physical blow, expelling all air from his lungs with its raw honesty. _Yes_ , he thought. _That is the problem. I can no longer fulfil my position as protector to Falcio. Or to you, Brasti Goodbow._

"And what about your position as friend, hmm?"

Kest startled, and it took him several seconds to realise he had spoken his thoughts aloud, letting his admissions escape him. Brasti took the opportunity to press his point home. "You were never my protector, you complete prat. As if the legendary Brasti Goodbow needed a protector. What I do need, what I've always needed, was a friend. A brother."

"I couldn't bare to disappoint you," stammered Kest, feeling suddenly vulnerable lying on the ground in the dirt without even his usual calm facade to protect him. "What you must think of me; a swordsman who can't even bare the thought of lifting a blade."

"So you decided the best way to avoid disappointing me was to refuse to come back to life, and force me to murder Falcio with my own bare hands just so that he could try and bring you back instead. Thanks for that, but in future, please assume I'd rather you saved us all the hassle, and come back the first time you are told."

Brasti had begun to crumble half way through his rant, and now sat sobbing as he bowed over Kest's legs. 

"Brasti, come here," ordered Kest, forcing his weak, heavy arms into motion and propping himself up in a slumped sitting position. He reached his long arm out to Brasti and hooked his wrist around his friend's elbow, pulling him towards him. It didn't take long before Brasti twisted around and buried his head into Kest's shoulder, arms clutching him tightly. 

"I'm sorry," Brasti breathed out between shuddering sobs, and Kest could feel his own body giving into his emotions as his eyes began to glisten once more with tears, and the breath caught in his chest.

"I'm sorry, too," he murmured in Brasti's ear, slowly rocking them back and forth as he held his hand on the nape of his friend's neck. 

"Don't let go." 

Kest barely heard the words that were breathed into his coat, but he felt them reverberate in his chest and he squeezed Brasti tighter, even though he knew that wasn't what the archer meant. 

"I won't," he promised his brother. "I won't. I'm not going anywhere."

"Good. But then, I wouldn't expect anything less from Saint Kest-who-isn't-a-Saint-anymore-but-can-still-beat-the-shit-out-of-Gods."

"Beautifully succinct as always, Brasti," smiled Kest, but found his chest growing tight. "But maybe you should start expecting a little less from me."

Brasti kept his head snuggled into Kest's shoulder and gave him a squeeze as he ruffled the swordsman's hair and whispered, "I don't care how much less I have to expect. As long as you're here, that's enough."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I really hope you enjoyed.


End file.
